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Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Celebration Station: Day 5- Travis I Sivart

Day 5

Today we visit with Travis I Sivart, as he shares a selection from his short story collection Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality.

What is New is Old Again

I had thought to take the railplane. It was new, but it
was a singular idea of modern technology. It was like the train I was currently
a passenger aboard, powered by steam and rode on rails. Except it was suspended
from a rail above the ground and had a huge propeller that made it two or three
times faster than my current transportation. I had to settle for this more
prevalent mode of transport because I was traveling the whole length of the
country, across the northern territories and states, from Van Tinsvelete to New
Philton. I was much more accustomed to traveling in a less public manner, but
this time was too far to rely on horse or carriage, and my regular form of
travel was very exhausting and much easier to get lost. A zeppelin would go the
whole trip, but was not as fast, and cost much more. Also, I did not want to
deal with the society elitists that tended to prefer them.

I had stowed my pistol and other unneeded items in my
private compartment. I had ventured out, not liking the confines of a small
room when traveling through such open country. I wore my wrist bracer with its
dials, a thermometer, a time piece, and a compass in its own pocket. My
red-brown sleeveless leather duster was open, leaving the brass buckles and
straps hanging. My favorite hat was pushed back with the brim dipping to cover
my eyes. I found the style in Southern Gallix two years ago in 6524. It was
worn by a woman in a play called Fedora.
In Teurone they teased me about wearing a woman’s hat, but here in the North
Mirron no one knew the difference. But to each their own; after all I mocked
the current fad of goggles, except when they were worn at proper times such as
flying, driving, or in hostile environments like deserts or the artic. To see
an adventurer wearing them brought a smile to my face and made me want to buy
the bearer a drink for a good story. To see a Bolton nobleman wear those on his
top hat made me want to ask why - if they were needed them for something other
than fashion.

We were stopping in a station in Shy Falls, in the Dasism
Territory, to let more passengers aboard. It had become much more populated
since they discovered gold here a little more than ten years ago. I knew it
would be divided up and given statehood one day.I watched as the ladies in bustles squeezed
into the wooden benches of the coach class. Men sat sweating in their coats and
top hats, crammed in beside prospectors and homesteaders heading back east for
various reasons.

Claiming my satchel from beside me, I stood and offered
my seat to an elderly lady and what appeared to be her grandson. She smiled her
thanks with a small sigh as I tipped my hat. I made my way to the dining car,
pushing past the crowd of new passengers. It was late and most would be
settling down for the night. A nice brandy and maybe a pipe would be excellent
at this hour. The dining car was a fine affair. Mahogany wood paneling covered
the walls, tables and bar; highlighted with polished brass rails and crystal
glass tulips over the electric lights. The new trains were amazing. The
electric lights were actually a self-generated power gathered by turbines
linked to the wheels. So the faster the train went, the more energy it had to
distribute. It even had storage cells for when it wasn’t moving. The steam
discharge was also used and recaptured to help heat the water for hot showers. Moveable
panels had been installed in the upper corners of the train cars. These panels
would open on one side when it was cold and the steam coursing through the
tubes that ran from car to car would heat the interior, or open on the other
side to vent the heat out and let cool, fresh air inside during the hot days.
Simple modifications made such a difference.

I sat at a table, not liking the ‘center-stage’ feel of
a bar. This also allowed me to look out the window and not have to interact
much with the other passengers. I drew my pipe pouch from my satchel and rubbed
the well-worn leather with my thumb for a moment, deep in thought. Filling my
pipe was routine, and I paid little mind to what I did. Dusting the tobacco off
the table, I sprinkled it on top of the packed pipe to make for an easier
lighting. Looking around, I drew a contraption from my pocket that wasn’t well
known and lit my pipe. The flame shot a few inches above my cupped hand each
time I puffed. I could have asked the man with the handlebar mustache and apron
behind the bar for a fag from the small stove, but I preferred to not to start
an obligatory conversation. I don’t know how long I sat enjoying the rhythm of
the tracks, when a faint shadow stopped at my side. A hand came into my field
of vision, pointing at the other chair.

“Mind if I join you?” asked a man with a faint Midwestern
accent. I looked up at him for a brief moment, and then glanced at the other
dozen empty tables lining the wall. “You are smoking,” he said, “I plan to
smoke also. There is something about the ‘Brotherhood of the Leaf’ that makes
me want to sit with someone that also enjoys the pleasures of a nice smoke.
Besides, I know you won’t complain about the smoke, and others are less likely
to complain if we are both smoking,” he said with a shrug.

I gestured to the other chair, gave a similar shrug,
and puffed on my pipe as he set down a sketch pad and charcoal pencil and
settled into his seat. I studied the man sitting across from me. The first
thing I noticed was his wild hair. It had a loose curl and was neither slicked
back nor trimmed short, but free. It was salt and pepper and I knew it would turn
a wonderful white in time. His moustache followed suit and was a bushy affair
that grew below the sides of his mouth, though the rest of his face was clean
shaven. His face was lined with character that spoke of a life that had been
lived to the fullest and I could see creases from frequent smiles as well as
worry. He was about ten years older than me. From the pocket of his white
jacket that was not neatly pressed, though not too worn either, he drew a cigar
and lit it from the short candle in the crystal glass on the table. He leaned
back and blew out a long stream of dirty grey smoke. We sat in silence and I
returned to watching the shadowy landscape.

“It is a mystery of life,” he said breaking my
cogitation. I looked at him, eyebrow raised. He had a good voice, the kind that
told good stories and made me want to listen, at least for a little while. “Can
one man change the world?”

“Well, it depends how you mean that.” My brow crinkled
as I attempted to reason where his question had come from. I had done many
things and had opinions on his exact question. I did not assume he knew me or
where I had been, but I have a weakness for the great questions of life, and
when someone opens a conversation with something close to one, I cannot resist
but to explore their thoughts.

“Forgive me, my name is Samuel” he said extending his
hand, his drawl very pronounced at that moment.

“Jack,” I said, accepting his hand. His grip was warm
and friendly, and lingered for a moment of rare human contact. It spoke of a
man looking for answers.

“I just lost a
dear friend and am returning home to Quarry Farm in the Empire from his
funeral. And as such events will do, it has left me contemplative,” he
continued. I nodded, waiting for him to go on. “I think about the deeds of my
friend and the people he left behind, and it is only natural, as humans are
selfish creatures, that thoughts turn to my own mortality.”

“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” I uttered the common
courtesy of sympathy, unable to think of anything better to say. After a moment
added, “Tell me about your friend?”

“He was a man, like any other. He faced his challenges
in life, perhaps better than most. We are very different men. He had his
adventures when he was young; I had mine when I was a bit older. He wasn’t much
older than me though, a mere decade. We did have some things in common, we are
both family men. My third daughter just turned four this summer, in Surem. His
children are all grown and he is enjoying his grandchildren.”

“You said he passed? You speak as if he is still
alive.”

“Isn’t he?” He drew from his cigar, looking for a
moment at the ash at the end. Waving the waiter to the table, he ordered a whiskey.
“I will explain. He lives on in his deeds, his actions, and his legacy. Don’t
we all? Some men strive for greatness and become notable men in history, and we
live in an era where history is being formed as we speak. Now, I don’t think my
friend will ever grace a history book, but I don’t doubt his mark has been left.
He was a forward thinking man and educated. He attended some University and had
a military career. But I think he was best educated through his own efforts.
But I do not think that is what makes a man.” He drew on his cigar again and
sipped at his drink, which had just arrived. “Do you believe in time travel?”

His question surprised me and it must have shown on my
face. I fancy myself to have a good poker face, but some things slip past.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“The ability to travel, not just through space, but
also through time. Science has made many great leaps in the past few decades,
and I think this is possible. And I think you do also. I noticed your fancy
gadgets, also the odd colored mud that dried on those boots. That is not from
anywhere near here, and I doubt it would stay on you for long enough for you to
have traveled from someplace that has such soil.”

“A bit of mud and a few brass trinkets do not a time
traveler make,” I said as I fumbled with my lighter, lighting my pipe again
which had gone out.

“Oh, I agree. But your accent, your mode of speech,
your mannerisms, and your singular reaction to my question makes me think there
is more to you than you let on. Not to mention that unique tool with which you
light your pipe.”

“I am thunderstruck, sir.”

“I think you are, but your eyes say I am not completely
incorrect either. You see I have traveled three continents, piloted riverboats,
and met many people. But none like you. That is why I sat here. Now, do not be
querulous. I have no intention of exposing you, and perhaps I only want to
believe it because of my current state of introspection. But I will have you
know I am a Freemason, a member of the secret society Scroll and Key, and a
member of the recently formed Society of Psychical Research. I even foresaw my
own brother’s death in a steamboat explosion a month before the event occurred.”

He said all this louder than the rest of our
conversation and I looked around to see if anyone had overheard. The room had
grown quiet. As I looked around everyone began speaking again, and quite
purposefully not looking in our direction. He laughed kindly.

“You see?” he asked. “They look away. They will not
bother us. We are two eccentrics having a discussion in our cups. But I think
perhaps you may have answers for me. I have a friend, Nikola, who does
wonderful research. He made electric lights and many other tools available
through his works, and he and I often discuss the very real possibility of time
travel. He even works on a machine to make it possible.” I stared at him and
tamped my pipe, puffing to make sure it didn’t go out. I sipped my brandy and
sized him up.

“I don’t believe time exists except in the mind,” I
said, thinking I would shock him. He nodded and leaned back in his seat,
waiting. “Time, like any measurement was made by humans to explain our world,
our surroundings, so we could better understand them. But when you define
things you limit them, and that allows the impossible to exist. Without such
definitions nothing would be impossible. And scientists that ignore such
parameters are the ones that prove that the impossible does not exist, it is
merely the undiscovered.”

“Radical thinking. I am a very forward thinker also. I
believe everyone should be allowed to have an education and an opinion. I
support Women’s Suffrage, Abolition, and Emancipation. But these are mundane
conflicts compared to what you suggest.” He paused. “I am still trying to
fathom the full implications of what you are suggesting. If these things do not
exist, except in our minds, what does that say for the rest of the physical
world? Even our own bodies?”

“They are a form of definition also.”

“So what is real?”

“Our minds. Perhaps our spirits, our souls.”

“Do you believe in God, sir?” he asked, his eyes
piercing me and I knew this question was a test.

“He is a measurement also. And by defining something
like God, we limit it. Don’t you think?”

He drew from his cigar and stared out the window for
long minutes. His face went calm and the lines upon it went smooth. I could see
him savoring the thought like the whiskey and cigar he held in his hands,
considering it. He threw back the last of his drink and waved for another drink
for both of us. We sat in silence as the waiter brought us our drinks and left.

“Perhaps Jack, but if we do not believe in God and the
rewards and punishment that comes with that faith, would we not turn to evil
ways?” he asked.

“Did you attend a college?” I asked and he shook his
head.

“I educated myself in public libraries and through
life.”

“Yet you still learned without an institution. Religion
is a fine institution, but it is not the only way to learn how to be good and
moral. It is a way for others to control what you learn though, and how you
think.”

“I must agree. I often speak of how many evils have
come from religious efforts: wars, theft, killing of whole peoples, and
destruction of whole civilizations over a disagreement of the definition of gods!”
His eyes went wide, “Jiminy Whiskers! There is that word again, definition. You
have made me use it, enforcing your point. Well done,” he laughed. It was a
laugh from deep inside and heartfelt. He then asked a question, almost of
himself, “What are you saying though? How does this relate to my original topic
of my friend?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if this relates at
all.”

“Of course it does! That is why I was drawn to you. If
time does not exist, except as a human concept, then he lives on. Forever, if
you believe in time outside of time in the mind. Things come around again and
again,” he went on, now becoming passionate. “DaVinci thought of many things
including submersible crafts and of flight, and now we have zeppelins and are
developing flying machines, or so I have heard. My friend was part of the Air
Corps you see, and my other friend Nikola says that with steam and electric we
should be able to create machines that fly without a balloon attached. So what
is old is new again. It is reborn with the spirit and defined by the mind.”

We talked for many hours, about many things that night.
I think he realized that no one is ever truly lost to us even if we no longer
have them in our life. We all have a legacy; some are just more public than
others. We all touch many lives and a simple touch is enough to change the
world. He spoke of a world, places, and people I had not been a part of in a
long time, but made me miss it and want to return for a visit. I don’t know how
he arrived on that train, but I am grateful he did. We never met again, but as
we shook hands to part ways he left me with a parting thought.

“Perhaps I will write about you one day. A man that
comes to a different place, a different time, with different ideas. And we will
both have a legacy that others remember.”

Travis I Sivart lives in a state of constant flux between Richmond, VA
and Washington, DC with his son and two cats. He has written and published
poetry, short stories, editorials on manners, pipe smoking, and medieval
re-enactment. He can be found hosting his Steampunk themed radio show, Sounds
of Steam, or at http://www.TravisISivart.com